by Davis Bunn
Only when the man rose and began pacing did Marc realize how tall he was. Marc guessed his height at somewhere around seven feet. He favored his left leg, but at the same time paid it no mind, which suggested a well-healed wound that had simply become a part of who he was.
“Recently we have become aware of a possible internal problem. Corruption, bribery, collusion.”
“All the things which, if revealed, would add ammunition to those who want America to withdraw from participating in the UN at all,” Walton interjected.
“We have no direct evidence,” the tall UN security chief went on. “But it appears that someone with very real power is directing lucrative supply contracts to a corporate ally in return for kickbacks.”
Marc named the group in the manila file he had left with the limo driver. “Lodestone Associates.”
“Lodestone is a major provider of armed security services. They have an excellent reputation for training police forces. Another division has been involved for over a decade in supplementing UN security details when we become overstretched. Three years ago they acquired a third group. Medevac helicopters, field hospitals, personnel. Last year they added a fourth.”
“Emergency relief supplies,” Marc said, mostly to let the man know he was on the same page.
“This is a logical move. They have the connections. Their forces are often first on the ground. They know the players, the people who would issue the contracts.”
“But you suspect something.”
“Their growth rate is astounding. In the ten months since Lodestone acquired the supply group, they have increased turnover almost tenfold.”
When the man went silent, Walton said, “Tell him the rest.”
The man slipped back into his chair. He picked up the injured leg and dropped it over his other knee. The chandelier took the sharp angles of his face and created deep caverns. Marc liked the man’s strength, his disregard for his own discomfort. He said, “Now we are moving from what we know to what we fear.”
“I understand.”
“We have received some very troubling rumors from our allies in the field. Lodestone may not be satisfied with merely winning new contracts. They may be attempting something far worse.”
“Such as?”
“We have no idea.”
Walton said, “One division helping another to gain new business is standard tactics.”
“Not if their business is built upon graft and corruption,” the man barked. “Not on my watch.”
Walton offered Marc a tight smile. Marc nodded agreement. This man was one of their own.
“We suspect that Lodestone has become involved in other, more nefarious operations. Netting them hundreds of millions of dollars.”
He stumbled slightly on that word, nefarious. Marc decided the man was definitely Dutch. “I don’t get it,” Marc said. “If they’re involved in such huge ventures, it doesn’t make sense that they’d worry about medical supplies.”
“Explain,” Walton demanded.
“The risk of discovery is the same. But if they’re caught at this smaller game, they give you a reason to question their larger enterprises.”
“I happen to agree with you,” the man said to Marc. “And I wonder if perhaps more than medical supplies are involved in this new operation.”
“They could use the legitimate operations to hide something dirty,” Marc said. “What evidence do you have?”
“None. We do not know for certain what Lodestone is after.”
The man rubbed a spot on his wounded leg, six inches above the knee. The trouser leg indented deeply. Marc decided it was a bullet wound. The man had taken a hit to his thigh, and come back. Marc said, “But you suspect.”
“We prefer not to discuss what could be total speculation,” the man replied. “We would prefer an outsider to go in with no preconceived notions.”
Marc gave voice to what the man was probably thinking. “To maintain a major illegal operation over time, they will need protection from within the procurement system. Someone high up inside the UN may be shielding their activities from view. If they are indeed involved in illegal activities.”
The security chief studied Marc intently. “What would you suggest we do?”
“Plant someone inside Lodestone. If a number of divisions are involved in an illegal operation, there’s bound to be a trail.”
The man lifted his gaze and spoke directly to Walton for the first time. “I concur with your assessment of this gentleman. He is precisely what we are after.”
“Told you he was good,” Walton muttered.
The man said to Marc, “You will be fitted into Lodestone’s new humanitarian-supply division as an accountant. One of their principal subcontractors will suggest you as a field officer of merit. This division has outstripped Lodestone’s current field staff. They are actively recruiting.”
“Where am I going?”
“We have recently received word of an abduction. The missing man, Serge Korban, is an Israeli medical technician assigned to a French-run refugee camp in western Kenya. So far as we have been able to determine, Serge Korban has no direct connection to Lodestone. But his sister has repeatedly insisted that Lodestone is behind his disappearance.”
“There’s more,” Walton said.
“There has to be,” Marc agreed. “For the White House to have an interest, we’ve got to be talking about more than another case of bureaucratic corruption, no matter how big.”
The unnamed security chief said, “We are hearing rumors of an international smuggling operation.”
“One that could have serious implications for U.S. interests,” Walton added. “At the highest level.”
“Our problem,” the security chief went on, “is that at present we have no hard evidence. None whatsoever.”
Walton said, “We think it would be best for you to go in with an open mind. Check into this situation without bias.”
“See if your findings tally with what we are hearing,” the security chief added. “We simply want you to see if there is any evidence of wrongdoing, and what possible connection Lodestone might have to this Israeli’s disappearance.”
“Why aren’t the Israelis involved?”
“Officially, they are,” Walton replied. “A complaint has been lodged, both by their embassy in Nairobi and from the government in Tel Aviv. But nothing more.”
“Which is understandable,” the security chief said. “The only indication we have of wrongdoing comes from his sister. Kitra Korban serves as a nurse in the same camp from which Serge was abducted. We have also received a rather vague confirmation from our field agent.”
“Can I make contact with your source?”
“Most certainly,” the man replied, going grimmer still. “If only we could locate him. But he has been missing now for a week, and we fear the worst. I urge you to take great caution, Mr. Royce. Whatever it is Lodestone hides, they value it far more than the odd human life.”
Chapter Eight
The next morning began with a dawn service in the makeshift chapel. The singing and the children were a joyful accompaniment to the sunrise. Kitra sat as usual on the front pew, silent and withdrawn through it all. Later on, Marc stood alongside the elders as the chief expelled the attackers. It seemed as though the entire camp joined together to make their trudging departure a walk of shame. He asked Charles, “Where will they go?”
Charles and Kamal shared bitter humor before Charles replied, “Kibera, most likely.”
“Where’s that?”
“A Nairobi slum. A terrible place.” Charles blended his translation with Kamal’s quietly spoken words. “Where they belong. Kibera has many gangs. They will be among their own kind.”
Following the expulsion, Kamal’s men fanned out, carrying a message from Marc and the elders. It was the first time soldiers had ventured through the camp since the volcano’s eruption. They walked in pairs, their rifles slung. Marc was after strong men and women who were r
espected by their own, young people who resisted the temptation to give their anger free reign. Who yearned for more, even if they could not name the desire. That was how he had described it to the elders. He sought young people who could be trusted with the lives of the camp’s citizens.
The elders brought their stools into the empty godown’s shade and became part of the selection process. One of the wives brought out an extra stool. Philip motioned for Marc to make himself comfortable. At his signal, Kamal lined up the young people in two groups, male and female, and stamped the dust with his worn boots, barking out the questions Marc had asked him to demand of each person. Charles walked over to stand alongside Marc and translated. Marc did not speak. He pretended to study each person in turn. But in truth he wanted Charles and Kamal and the elders to make the choices. He hoped these people, and the other watching eyes, would begin to work together as one group.
During the selection process, Philip asked through Charles, “How many do we seek?”
Marc shook his head. “Perhaps we should use the guidance of a better man,” he replied. “Twelve men and twelve women.”
Philip revealed a rare smile and turned back to the selection process.
Afterward the chosen young people carted out all the boxes of forms from the admin building. The French aid worker squawked a bit, then retreated to her bunk and blew smoke at the ceiling fan. The group built a bonfire that illuminated a growing number of faces. The camp stood and watched the flames devour box after box of the hated forms. Only when the fire died to glowing embers did they turn away.
Marc ordered the two teams to issue foodstuffs and ensure that no family tried to obtain a double portion. Doing this cemented both their authority and his own. And it freed up Kamal’s men to make regular patrols.
They were still at it when the chapel bell chimed for the evening service. Marc was moving toward the open-sided chapel when he heard a phone ring inside the admin hut. Valerie answered what Marc assumed was the satellite phone. A few moments later, the screen door opened. The woman stepped onto the front stoop and gestured to him with the bulky apparatus.
Valerie handed him the phone and said, “Now we will see.”
Marc watched her disappear inside the admin hut’s shadows. “This is Royce.”
“Frederick Uhuru here. Have you heard of me?”
“Sorry, no.”
“Well, I have heard of you, young man. First from the aid worker—what is her name?”
“Valerie.”
“Yes, that one. Your camp was run by some very good people, but they are now dealing with the crisis at another camp. You have heard this already, yes? Then I heard from your medical administrator. I have heard from this gentleman three times now. He wanted to be certain that Valerie was not the only voice speaking about you. His opinion of you is very high, Mr. Royce. And growing higher by the hour.”
“That’s good to know.”
“I am the UN administrator for this district. I was expecting to be with you today. That will not be possible.”
“Understood, sir.”
The man had a good African voice, rich and deep, with a timbre that made him sound ready to burst into song at any moment. “I need you to stay on the job there, Mr. Royce. Do you understand what I am saying? I do not have administrative control over your movements. This is not an order. But I am officially requesting your assistance.”
Marc listened as voices rose in song from the chapel, a distinctly African lilt that merged with the heat and the sunset. “I am happy to help out, sir.”
“Do you have access to a map?”
“Just a second.” Marc opened the screen door and stepped inside. Valerie was in the room to his right, stretched out on her bunk. She read a paperback book whose pages were so limp with sweat and the touch of many hands she could fold it back like a magazine. Marc crossed to the map on the office wall. “I’m looking at a detailed chart of this region.”
Frederick Uhuru said, “Can you locate Camp Echo?”
The sat phone was bulky and fit oddly in his hand. The stubby antenna was as thick as his forefinger and the length of his hand. The entire apparatus weighed almost a pound, like a cellphone from the eighties. “Sorry, sir. I couldn’t even tell you where my own camp is situated.”
The phone’s reception was good enough for Marc to hear the pleasure in Frederick Uhuru’s laugh. “Ask the young lady for her assistance.”
But before Marc could speak, Valerie walked into the main room, gave him a smoldering look, then stabbed the map with one finger. Marc watched her slouch back into the bunkroom, thinking that her ability to look attractive even when sullen was a distinctly French attribute. “Okay, sir. I’m centered correctly.”
“Camp Echo is twenty-two kilometers to the south by east of your location. It should be marked.”
“I have a yellow pin in that approximate position, but no name.”
“Camp Echo is run by the Swiss Red Cross. Their supplies have been held up in Mombasa Harbor. It is my understanding that they are approaching starvation.”
“We’re hoping to receive a new supply shipment tomorrow.”
“I have heard this also. I want you to share your provisions with them, Mr. Royce. Again, this is not an order. I can only give you my word that your company will be recompensed for their goods.”
“Sir, payment is secondary here. If they need it and we have it, the goods are theirs.”
The UN representative was silent for a long moment. “I shall look forward to making your acquaintance as soon as possible, Mr. Royce. In the meanwhile, it is a pleasure to have you on board. And, Mr. Royce?”
“Sir.”
“Take care on the journey to Camp Echo. Bandits are active in your region. Uhuru out.”
When Marc emerged from the admin building, Charles had concluded the evening service. The parishioners gradually dispersed, their voices melting into the gathering dusk. The western horizon was dappled with the final remnants of daylight. Marc remained where he was, surveying the shanties and their corrugated roofs. He listened to a child sing somewhere in the distance, the voice rising and falling in a distinctly un-Western cadence. Then he heard a growing rumble, a grinding of gears, and the tinny sound of a blaring radio. As the first star appeared, a dust cloud rose to stain the sky, and four heavily laden trucks pulled into the compound and halted.
The motors coughed and rattled and stopped. The engines ticked away the heat and stress of racing the night. The lead truck’s door opened, and a weary driver beamed and laughed as Marc came trotting over. The driver gave an odd wave, unable to fully relax his grip on the wheel he no longer held.
That night and the next morning were spent dividing up the new shipment. Marc’s teams of young people and Kamal’s men and the medical staff all pitched in. Around midday, two empty trucks departed for the depot, with manifests for another load. Valerie hitched a ride. One of Kamal’s men hoisted an overly cheerful salute as she departed.
When the two remaining trucks were loaded and the motors rumbling, Kitra and Charles emerged from the medical tent. Marc motioned for Kitra to join him in the lead truck.
As they passed through the front gates, he asked, “What can you tell me about your brother?”
Kitra pitched her voice loud enough to be heard above the engine. “Serge wanted to heal the land. That’s all you need to know.”
“He is also a believer? I mean—”
“I know what you mean, Mr. Royce. All my family are followers of Jesus.”
“But you are Israeli, right?”
“Serge and I were both born at our kibbutz near Tel Aviv. My parents had emigrated, my mother from Paris, my father from Chicago.”
“Serge is a doctor?”
“Electronic engineering. But he had trained as a medic in the IDF. You know this term?”
“The Israeli Defense Forces.” Marc had worked with them on several assignments. “Good soldiers.”
“Serge called them the best army
in the world.”
Marc heard the past tense and the hollow loss in her voice. “So you both volunteered to come help out here. Why Kenya?”
“Should Americans be the only people on earth who volunteer to help in foreign lands? Send out missionaries? Work with others at times of crises?”
Marc had the sense her words were masking something deeper. What that might be, or how he might uncover the hidden meaning, he could not tell. “I’m just trying to get a handle on what happened to him.”
“Serge heard about villages being evacuated north of the volcano’s eruption. But according to the lava flow, Serge was certain they were in no danger. The elders who arrived with the new flood of refugees confirmed this. Serge went to find out what was going on.”
It was the first chance he’d had to see Kitra up close. Her green eyes were so dark they appeared almost black in the shade, but became translucent in the sunlight. It was a remarkable transformation, as though two sides of her nature were revealed in her gaze. Kitra was too strong a woman to be called beautiful in any classical sense. A vibrant energy radiated from her. As their truck lumbered and swayed, every brush of her arm created sparks. Or so it felt to him. Kitra gave no sign she either noticed or cared.
Kitra went on, “Serge suspected that corrupt bureaucrats were using this latest disaster as an excuse for a land grab. Ever since the national elections three years ago, the Kenyan power structure has been rushing to take advantage of the chaos and line its pockets. Serge assumed it was just more of the same.”
“Your brother sounds like one amazing guy.”
For some reason, his words finally released the tears. Kitra wiped dusty streaks across her face and struggled to keep her tone steady. “Serge lived to give voice to the voiceless. It was his defining trait. I’m certain that’s why he was made to disappear. He tried to protect the innocent. He asked the wrong question. He made an enemy of the wrong man.”
Marc’s mini-convoy required three hours to cover the twenty-two kilometers. The terrain turned hilly for the last five miles, the going increasingly rugged. They held to tracks or game trails or, on a few occasions, simply cut across open fields. The roads were rivers of humanity and beasts, all headed in the opposite direction. The savannah was populated by giant acacia trees, their distinctive flat tops shaped like living tables.
